"Sometimes closure doesn't knock. It just slams the door and locks it behind you."
I always thought breakups happened in coffee shops. You know, somewhere public enough that neither person could throw a drink or burst into tears without feeling watched. But no — mine happened in Liam Crawford's shiny apartment that looked like it belonged in a furniture catalog and smelled faintly of expensive regret.
"I think we both knew this was coming," he said, which is what people say right before they do something awful they've been planning for weeks.
I was still holding the pasta spoon, sauce dripping onto the floor because apparently, I believed cooking dinner would fix the universe. "Sorry, what?" I blinked at him, half-hoping he was joking.
Liam sighed, the kind of sigh that suggested emotional exhaustion even though the most tiring thing he'd done that day was choose a filter for his latest "inspirational" Instagram post. "You've been distant," he said. "I've been busy. We're just… not clicking anymore."
Busy. Right. That's one word for "sneaking around with your coworker and liking her photos at 2 a.m."
"Not clicking?" I repeated, forcing a laugh that sounded like I was choking on disbelief. "Liam, you texted me last night saying you missed me."
"Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck like a man burdened by his own emotional depth. "And I meant it. But also… I'm kind of seeing someone else now."
There it was. The hammer to the glass heart.
For a second, I genuinely thought he was joking. He had that kind of face that made sarcasm look natural — all dimples and fake sincerity. But when he didn't laugh, the pasta spoon slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the tile.
"You're kidding," I said, because denial is step one of heartbreak, right before snacks and stalking.
He wasn't kidding. "It just happened," he added quickly, like that made it less of a betrayal. "You've been so stressed lately, with school and work. I didn't want to dump more on you."
"Wow, how thoughtful of you," I said, my voice shaking somewhere between laughter and murder.
He kept talking — something about "emotional connection" and "timing" and how she "gets him." I didn't hear most of it. My ears had gone full white noise, my brain buffering on you're seeing someone else.
Her name, it turned out, was Harper. I'd met her once — the kind of woman who wore heels taller than my self-esteem and called herself a "brand consultant." I remember thinking she seemed too polished for Liam. Now I realized she was exactly his type: shiny on the outside, hollow where accountability should be.
"I still want to be friends," he finished lamely, because of course he did.
"Friends," I echoed. "You want to be friends with the person you cheated on."
"I didn't cheat," he said too fast. "We were… on a break."
There it was. The Ross Geller defense.
"You mean that day I told you I needed space after your 'networking dinner' that turned out to be a candlelit date?"
He looked wounded, like I was the unreasonable one. "You said you wanted space!"
"I meant space from your ego, not space for you to date someone else!"
We stared at each other, the silence between us as thick as the pasta sauce burning on the stove. I could feel my hands shaking, anger buzzing under my skin, but underneath that — heartbreak, quiet and stupid.
Finally, I grabbed my coat and bag. "You know what, Liam? You can keep your emotional connection and your perfectly symmetrical hair. I'm done."
He said something as I left — something that started with "Wait" — but I was already out the door, my breath clouding in the cold night air, the city lights blurring through my tears.
---
Outside, the world kept going, like it hadn't just crumbled in my chest. Cars honked, people laughed, a couple kissed under a streetlight. I stood there, clutching my coat, realizing that love doesn't explode dramatically — sometimes it just dissolves quietly, leaving you standing in the cold with mascara and marinara sauce competing for space on your face.
I didn't cry, not right away. Crying felt too easy, too expected. Instead, I walked home in silence, each step echoing with the realization that I had absolutely no idea what to do next.
Home was my tiny apartment above a laundromat, where the walls smelled faintly of detergent and desperation. My best friend Stacy wasn't home — she was probably out doing something fabulous, like existing confidently or threatening a man at trivia night.
I dropped my bag, peeled off my coat, and stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. My half-finished research paper on "The Psychology of Emotional Avoidance" glared back at me, smug and ironic.
"Well," I muttered, "guess I'm the case study now."
I made tea, burned my tongue, and told myself I was fine. Fine-ish. Medium-fine. The kind of fine that could maybe pass for functional if I avoided reflective surfaces.
For the next few hours, I cleaned my kitchen, alphabetized my spice rack, and deleted Liam's photos from my phone — except one. The one where we were laughing at a carnival, cotton candy in hand, before everything turned sour. I stared at it too long, trying to remember what it felt like to be that version of me — the one who believed in forever.
When Stacy came home later, wearing heels and trouble, she found me sitting on the floor surrounded by cleaning supplies.
"Oh no," she said immediately. "You're cleaning. That's your post-apocalypse move. What happened?"
"Liam happened," I said, voice flat.
Her eyes widened. "You're kidding. Did he—"
"Cheat? Yep. With Harper. Apparently, they have an emotional connection."
Stacy dropped her bag dramatically. "Oh, I'll give them a connection — with my fist."
I laughed, for the first time since everything imploded. It came out broken but real.
She plopped beside me, wrapping me in a hug that smelled like vanilla and bad decisions. "Okay, listen. You're going to be okay. We'll get wine, we'll make a breakup playlist, we'll manifest his hairline receding by age thirty."
"I don't need revenge," I said weakly.
"Of course you do," she replied. "It's good for circulation."
I smiled, but deep down, I wasn't sure I believed her. Right then, all I wanted was to erase him — and the version of myself that loved him.
But heartbreak has a funny way of not listening to logic. It just lingers, humming quietly while you pretend you're fine.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying everything — the first kiss, the late-night calls, the laughter that now sounded like a lie. Somewhere between grief and exhaustion, I whispered to no one, "You'll regret this."
I didn't know if I meant him or me.